His mother smiled. It was a healthy sign. Also, thank goodness, there were no girls in black at the club.
At the club he resolutely passed the telephone booths and even got as far as the cloak room before he hesitated.
Then, very slowly, he retraced his steps; went into the nearest booth, and called a number that seemed burnt into his brain. Palla answered.
“Are you doing anything, dear?” he asked––his usual salutation.
“Oh. It’s you!” she said calmly.
“It is. Who else calls you dear? May I come around for a little while?”
“Have you forgotten what you–––”
“No! May I come?”
“Not if you speak to me so curtly, Jim.”